


The Little Part of Me I Fear

by Dichotomous_Dragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Duty and Love don't mix, Hurt/Comfort, Qun, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull and Hissrad cannot coexist forever. Tonight, the Qunari finds out exactly what he's lost by not realizing it sooner.</p><p>Duty and love never did make good bed partners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Part of Me I Fear

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1:30 AM and HERE, HAVE SOME BULL FEELS. 
> 
> (No, I am not going to hate that I stayed up late to finish when I'm at work tomorrow blah).

It was a herding mission, clearly, judging by the high number of his brethren and the seemingly endless line of Bas Saarebas. Hissrad tightened his grasp on his hammer, shaking off the grunt of disgust. Mages meant demons, and he _hated_ demons. The long line of mages was not Qunari in origin: made up entirely of elves and humans, the chain gang seemed to go on for miles, Arvaarad patrolling the line at regular intervals. Hissrad couldn't remember the raid but it must've been a big one. Impending raid by the Southern mages that they'd gotten the jump on? Or had they blitzed a legion of slaves out from under the 'Vints? It bothered him, that he couldn't remember--especially since it was very recent, given the state of some of their charges. It bothered him that something felt off. Uncertainty was not an emotion he was supposed to entertain. Still he patrolled the line, hammer in his hand and thoughts jumbled, barely watching the faces of the Bas as he marched through sand towards the rear of the column he was clearly assigned to.

Hissrad didn't notice him at first, one more bloodied mage in a line of many. Hard to, in the absence of his usual finery. His trademark buckled outfit was gone, likely torn off in the struggle. It had _absolutely_ been a struggle, too, given how heavily he was marked. Claws had gouged ragged ribbons around his throat, cheeks, wrists. He'd resisted the collar, resisted the cuffs. How many had he killed before they managed? The mage was likely drugged out of his mind on _Qaamek_ now, addled and powerless, but the greyness of his skin under the bruises said he had drained himself completely before they'd managed to put him down.

Hissrad faltered, felt two emotions war: the part of him that was compliant, that knew all mages needed to be controlled found itself drowned out by a fiery heat in his chest that felt like pride. This man had not rolled over, not acquiesced to what were certainly overwhelming odds. That fire Dorian had buried at his core, so luminescent that the brightness flooded out into everything he said and did, the fuel behind the intensity of his eyes and the resolute certainty of his convictions... What had the mage told him? No restraint in war or love. No holding back, not even in the face of a full squad of Qunari that would happily kill him. Dorian had fought them, the prideful idiot, because _of course he had_. 

_What did you expect me to do?_ an educated, crisp voice snapped at Hissrad, the spectre of a memory. The familiarity in it stung him somewhere deep, deeper than his training could reach. He expected a boast next, something about how an Altus would not bow down to savage Qunari barbarians. What he got stung much, much worse. _I had to at least try to protect myself, you...you certainly weren't going to._

The single tone of wrongness rose into a crescendo of dischord; Hissrad--no, _no_ , that wasn't his name, wasn't who he was, not primarily, not anymore--he clutched his head, staring at the leashed mage at the very back of the line. This mage, _his mage_ , was not supposed to be bound, not supposed to be hurt.

Memory flared and the scene broke, throwing him into older moments.

_A bare, tan shoulder and a biting remark heralded his arrival, clothing fashionable but many shades too light in color to match Tevinter tastes. A wry smile, wary and ungentle, asked when the knife would find his back. A posturing peacock, a sworn enemy of his people, sharp and brilliant and untrusting, covered his back against far worse. He was dangerous, Hissrad knew that from the start, but the mage was also something else. It took the Qunari awhile to find it. When he did, it was a glorious thing--a soft heart behind shining wit, pride rightfully earned but still not enough to make the mage whole._

 _A lithe form writhed on expensive silken sheets, perfect skin shining with a sheen of sweat. The Qunari's name--_ not Hissrad _\--ghosted across lips that were swollen, teased and bitten by his own. The blush crept over carved cheekbones, coloring his dark skin darker, pride slain by shyness when his partner stared too long at all the muscles and movements that, wrapped up with that gentle heart, made the mage so damn_ perfect.

 

His thoughts returned then to the desert, to the line, to his role, and reality shattered. **He was The Iron Bull and that was kadan** , bound and broken and unmade by the very same doctrine that had made Bull all he was. Like the lightning his mage would never cast again, it came to him: obvious and sour and unbidden. the Qun _**used**_ to make him all he was. Now, looking at all he was about to lose ( _had already lost_ ) he no longer knew why the doctrine had held such allure. 

The Bull broke rank, dropped his hammer, ran to his mage. He grabbed Dorian's chin, dried blood caked down it in ragged, crusty lines, with all the gentleness his shaking hand could manage. He lifted the face to his own, breath caught on _wrong_ , the act of breathing akin to pulling mouthfuls of broken glass into his lungs. Jagged lines criss-crossed over lips that were cracked and scabbed from bleeding, stitched shut. The claw marks-- _not his, never his, he loved the flawless features his mage treasured, too_ \--were recent, untreated, left as a warning to others. Not once, _not once_ did the aim of those lovely eyes rise from the ground to meet his own. 

That was what told him he was Hissrad, now just as before. That downturned gaze confirmed that he'd left The Bull dead in the sand along with something far more important. He had heard the mage tell the Inquisitor once that their dalliance was...an unknown of sorts. That neither ‘Vint nor Qunari _really_ knew what their arrangement meant, or even knew what it ‘was.’ Every moment of questioning felt insignificant just now. All qualm laid to waste in the blazing certainty, the absolute clarity of the moment. 

As expected-- _why won't he look, why doesn't he see me_ \--the moment the Qunari got what he wanted, the answers he and Dorian had stumbled towards all hit him at once. Those grey-green eyes met his own and he saw that everything he had been had torn away everything he wanted to be. _Could have been,_ had he not failed the one person who mattered the most. That person, he knew now, was not himself.

He was much, much too late.

 

Bull's spine snapped him from prone to upright, asleep to awake in the space of a blink. Nerves lit with a thousand fires; his soul screamed for battle, filled with a _rage_ so potent he wanted it purged. He struck for release, thrashed, grasped for a weapon that was across the room so that he could tear and fight and never look back. The abruptness of his movements flung the covers from the bed, one of the larger piles of which landed with a thud and rapidly began swearing at him in Tevene. 

Something in Bull strained and cracked. His guts twisted as he scrambled free of what sheets remained on the bed, frantically un-burying the partner he had so unceremoniously expelled not a moment prior. His mind wasn't begging, pleading to find a reversal, a reprieve from the stabbing guilt and loss. Instead it was silent, cold and unwilling to hope. The shaking suited him not at all and he fumbled for an agonizing second before managing to grab the blanket and yank it back.

And there, eyes blurry from sleep and still growling like a wet feline, was the mage. Dorian gave him a flat look, all bared skin and rumpled hair and already starting to shiver. He concluded his muttered tirade with a soft "Vishante kaffas" before folding his arms across his naked chest in a sulk. "What do you call _that_ , exactly?" he sniffed, the picture of abused nobility. "I was dead asleep, you beast!"

Bull couldn't speak, couldn't get his mouth to form words that would express the sluice of emotions tearing his chest apart just then. He settled for leaning forward (slowly, lest this new dream shatter), staring at every little detail on the mage, feeling it clash against the after-images seared into his mind.

This Dorian's lips were still perfect, unmarred and free, turned down at one corner alongside a flash of pearly white teeth. The Bull saw the absence of scars, of bruises, of the massive collar--all painfully, _gloriously_ absent. In their place remained a smooth expanse of swarthy skin, visible as the mage was naked--again, _gloriously_ \-- save for the bedsheets billowed around his legs. There was no down-turned face this time, no devastating loss of attention. Dorian was staring at him, huffing at first, grey-green eyes locked on his, demanding a reply. The mage was not a fool, however, and he quickly noticed that something was off with his lover. His glare softened, rapidly shifting from sleepy and irate to awake and concerned. The smooth brow pulled down as the corners of his mouth did in earnest, neck cocking his head to the side and The Bull heard the gears grinding, warming up in that brilliant brain of his. The Qunari saw the long eyelashes flutter and felt his insides do the same as waited for--

"Amatus?" Dorian said the word and The Bull knew then, knew for certain that _this_ was the real Dorian, his reality; not the nightmare. He knew and the relief flooded him, driving him back to sit down hard. He buried his face in his hands, _too late too late too late_ repeating in his head like a mantra. Distantly Bull heard Dorian make a concerned noise and it was only a moment before he felt the body beside him, close but hesitating at contact. "Bull? May I...?" 

Bull muttered his agreement in Qunlat, crushing his heart against his chest in a hug that was tighter than tight. He grounded himself in the tickle of the mage's hair against his nose, kissed the top of his head as a whiff of cologne wafted up to him, grounding and wonderful and familiar. The Qunari breathed him in, holding, waiting, trying to make sense of it. 

What he never knew he had wanted in his life, he had. In his bed, in his arms. He was also beginning to realize how painfully unwilling he was to lose it. He could feel it in his chest, hear it in his bones. Behind the shrieking of 'too late' there now lurked the truth and clarity of three little words he couldn't bring himself to say.

 

Dorian didn't understand it at all. He would ask--no question about that--but right now, the slight quiver of the man hugging him made it clear the questions could wait. There was always tomorrow. Tonight, this was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Yup...that just happened. Maker, I've been working on this for WAY longer than was strictly necessary, I think. 
> 
> Do please let me know what you think and thanks for reading :)


End file.
